


To the devil I go

by Ruler_of_Nope_Island



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Everybody Lives, M/M, cannibalism reference, mild bondage, no one is happy about this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 02:59:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15257940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruler_of_Nope_Island/pseuds/Ruler_of_Nope_Island
Summary: AU: a lot of people live and want revenge. John Irving thinks he's finally got Cornelius right where he wants him.Basically PWP





	To the devil I go

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how they survive they just do.

The woman - the madam - looks like any other respectable lady of modest means, although John supposes she would have to, given what she sells. He tries to keep the scorn and disgust off his face while this viper negotiates with him about the cost of the meat. She did have the flesh he wanted, the flesh he hungered for. Red hair. Used to be a sailor. About twenty eight. Blue eyes. Wicked smile. And a slightly scarred backside. 

John rubs his hand against his chest, feeling the scar there burn. 

“I won’t discount for the damage,” says the hag, “He comes as is. And as you are so particular in your wants- I mean to say, you know exactly who you want and how, and he is to be blindedfolded, and tied, well - he is skilled. I like to have a deposit as well.”

She names her price. It is outrageously high, John thinks. But then she has to keep the law away. Protect her livelihood. Indulge the degradations of others. The whole business revolts him. But it must be done. 

*

The lodging house could be like any other; like its mistress it keeps its sin well hidden. He has been in whorehouses before, God forgive him, and he expects something similar except with men. Powdered and painted and stinking of sweat; false hair and fake blushes and everything that should be covered on display like a butcher’s window. Moans and screams. Not this place, though. It is quiet. There are a few young men and women sitting quietly in the parlour, reading or playing cards, but apart from that the house could be any other. 

“You’re upstairs, Mr. Smith,” says the madam, “He’s prepared for you.”  
“For the full night?”  
“The whole night.”  
The scar burns again and he feels a sick sort of excitement. He tries to suppress it - this is about justice, not revenge. He will leave Hickey tied there until morning, when the others arrive to drag him off to - well, not to the law, but to justice. That sick, sinful part of him wants them to make it slow. 

She leads him upstairs, pausing before the closed door.  
“I warn you, Mr. Smith -” her tone mocking, “That I protect my goods. I have security. If there is some disorder, I will know about it. And we are very close to the river.”  
He is about to retort when she opens the door.

There is Cornelius Hickey, the monster, tied down to the bed. He is completely naked. Blindfolded, too - just as he wanted. Hickey’s head twists as he hears the door open.  
“All yours, Mr. Smith. Enjoy your night.”  
John has never felt the urge to strike a woman so much as that moment. But he must play the part.  
He nods, steps into the room. The door closes behind him. And they are alone.

“Hello,” says Hickey, as casually as if he were talking about the weather. “I am here, as you want me.”

John lets the silence stretch into minutes. He has no intention of letting Hickey know who he is, so silence is necessary. The madam’s warning rings in his ears.

“Would you like me to be silent? I can be. Just put your finger against my lips and I will be as silent as the grave.”

John shudders a little but does so. Hickey’s lips are softer than expected although he is presumably kept well for his clients. John is startled by a sudden wet lick to his fingertip and lets out a surprised squeak. Hickey smiles a little and John feels that angry pain in his chest that is not the scar but the scorching heat of hate. He relives, for a moment, when Hickey and Tozer returned from another hunting party with fresh meat. They were all so very hungry and ate without reservation.  
“Better than manna,” John had said, forgetting himself. And Hickey had smiled that same smile and they all thought that Hartnell had been carried off by the monster. 

He does not mean to dig his nails into Hickey’s chest; he does not mean to at all but does. It’s the devil that guides his hand, he’s sure of it, that devil who cries for a bloody revenge in the dark. Sometimes he is so weak and that devil is so strong that he wakes up in the night, dreams of his hands around Hickey’s throat. 

Hickey hisses in pain and surprise. John pulls his hand away.

“I’ve had worse,” Hickey says, quietly, “And you are paying to hurt me. Get your money’s worth, Sir. You will regret it -”

John runs his hand - why does he do that? - down that smooth, muscular body. He skips over Hickey’s cock and pinches his bollocks, hard and spiteful, his heart filled with sick glee. He is so exhausted by being the good one, the only pure Christian soul left in their unhappy little band, the voice of reason and calm. If he left it to the others they’d all be hanged as murderers. If Hickey says to them that John Irving touched his private parts they’d laugh as they put the noose around his neck. 

There is this strange fancy that he has that he will leave Hickey to them, let them punish him as a sodomite deserves. But to do that they would need to - they would need to want to, they would need to be hard -

He pinches again and Hickey’s back arches, his heels digging into the bed. He whimpers. Hickey has always brought the Devil with him, like some sort of miasma. He has something about him that encourages men to sin and wickedness. 

There is a slickness behind Hickey’s balls and John, almost sick to his stomach, realises that Hickey has been prepared for him. He is tied down and ready to be defiled. Did that madam do that for him? Or did he do that to himself?

The image of Hickey with his fingers inside himself makes him shudder. It is revolting and ungodly and yet he cannot be rid of it. How could any man enjoy partaking of such an activity? To receive sounds like the very worst thing and yet Gibson had told him that Hickey would accept this vileness, had wanted it, had pressed him to it, saying that it was better and tighter than any woman.

John presses two fingers inside Hickey and tells himself that this is about hurting Hickey, about humiliating him. Tears run down Hickey’s face and John presses his fingers further in and twists. Hickey’s legs flail and he twists in his bonds, gasping. More then. Deeper. He must press deeper-

Hickey’s cock stirs and fills. John watches, horrified and fascinated. He withdraws his fingers, leaving Hickey panting, his cock hard and sweat beginning to appear on his skin. 

John presses the fingers that were inside Hickey to his lips; after a moment’s pause, Hickey opens his mouth and sucks them. It is indescribably filthy and yet Hickey shows every sign of enjoying it, working his tongue around them like a doxy working a prick. It is this thought that makes John’s own cock swell. It has been so long since he touched or was touched that his sinful, lustful body betrays him. It is not Hickey at all, it cannot be. No matter how those red lips part, how his chest heaves and his legs part, an obvious invitation - 

“God,” John whispers, “God, please -”

“Fuck me,” Hickey begs, “I know I said I would be silent, but sir, I ache for you-”

John shakes his head, forgetting that Hickey cannot see him. 

“Sir,” Hickey moans, “Please. I know you paid to torment me but after, after, please -”

Hickey is utterly at his mercy. John could do anything at all but he chooses - and he does choose - to unbutton his trousers and shuffle between Hickey’s spread thighs. He chooses to push his hard cock against Hickey’s slick hole and press forward until he is engulfed, and he chooses -

The pleasure of it almost undoes him. No doubt Hickey is well used but he is so tight that it is almost painful. But he feels so good around John’s aching prick that his mind empties - he thinks nothing of revenge, thinks nothing of the horror of the revelation of the meat’s origins, he forgets the scars that Hickey left him - he only wishes for more of this. The blood rushing in his ears, the feel of Hickey’s skin under his hands, the noises that Hickey is making that he stifles by kissing him hard and clumsy. Hickey’s tongue is in his mouth and he is dying, he is burning from the inside, he can smell brimstone and the cold eyes of the Lord upon him and his orgasm feels like it will shatter his chest.

When he pulls out, Hickey has not spent, which disappoints him. He stares at the body before him, that beautiful, wicked body, and knows that Hickey has won again. John has unknowingly partaken in a blasphemous feast and Hickey is laughing at him, even though he cannot see from under the blindfold. 

John turns away, heaving breaths turning into sobs. He has betrayed everything; his surviving friends, himself, the dead, the Lord. He is so very lost. In that moment he considers going down to the river and throwing himself in; he does not deserve Heaven.

Then there is the knife at his throat and Hickey’s breath on his ear.

“What shall I do with you, Lieutenant?” he whispers. “Shall I turn the tables and send you to those that hunt me as well, with your throat cut and your man parts removed? Or should I tie you to that bed and call the law down? Or shall I invite Solomon in and show you how a real man fucks another?”

Tears run down John’s face. He is stupid. He should have known that where Hickey was Tozer would be and while Tozer lacked Hickey’s twisted imagination he did not lack the capacity for inflicting violence. 

The door opens; Tozer himself asks what is going on. 

“Oh,” he says, after a moment, “An old friend. You’re a long way from God here, John.”

It is this habit that Tozer has now, of calling all of his former superiors by their Christian names, by taking such amboniable liberties, that has made him almost as hated as Hickey. 

“What shall we do with him? Into the river, like Little?” 

“No,” says Hickey, “Leave him be. He just fucked me half raw. It’s almost more of a revenge to leave him alive, don’t you think? A good god-fearing man? He can torture himself.”

“You let him fuck you?” Tozer’s tone is dark; jealousy drips from his voice. 

“Yes, yes. But anyway. Let’s leave him to live with what he’s done. You were so close, John Irving. You were so close to your revenge.”

“Not revenge,” John says. He feels nothing. “Justice.”

“There’s no justice except what we make for ourselves,” Hickey says, sighing, as if talking to a stupid child, “Except justice without the guiding hand of the law is just revenge, isn’t it?”

“Christ you can talk,” Tozer says. His tread comes closer and suddenly John feels Hickey move away; then a fist to the face and all is darkness.


End file.
